


Part 7: Justin

by oiuytrewq36



Series: We Will Survive [7]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:26:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25992865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oiuytrewq36/pseuds/oiuytrewq36
Summary: It’s two weeks before my first show, a group exhibition of queer abstract artists at a small-but-cool independent gallery in Greenwich Village, and I’m freaking out because the owners have just announced they’ll be holding a preview exhibition over the weekend and I haven’t even figured out how I want to hang half the paintings I’m showing.Luckily, I have lots of people who are overly concerned with my personal life to come save me. Daphne will take any excuse to come over to the big city, Frances enjoys boring shit like typing up descriptions of paintings, and Brian has somehow found the time to fly up too. He’s even agreed to help with setup at the gallery, which is very fucking weird, but I guess it’s just because he looooooves me.
Relationships: Brian Kinney/Justin Taylor (Queer as Folk)
Series: We Will Survive [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1881736
Comments: 6
Kudos: 43





	Part 7: Justin

It’s two weeks before my first show, a group exhibition of queer abstract artists at a small-but-cool independent gallery in Greenwich Village, and I’m freaking out because the owners have just announced they’ll be holding a preview exhibition over the weekend and I haven’t even figured out how I want to hang half the paintings I’m showing.

Luckily, I have lots of people who are overly concerned with my personal life to come save me. Daphne will take any excuse to come over to the big city, Frances enjoys boring shit like typing up descriptions of paintings, and Brian has somehow found the time to fly up too. He’s even agreed to help with setup at the gallery, which is very fucking weird, but I guess it’s just because he looooooves me.

Daphne is a hit with the gallery owners, an older gay couple, because of course she is, and pretty soon the three of them are deep in conversation about a chandelier made of broken glass that’s hanging over the entranceway. I’m close to being done now, but I think there’s something not totally right about the alignment of the paintings and Brian agrees, so I ask Frances to take a look.

“Oh, sure, ask the obsessive-compulsive girl to - yeah, actually, that one’s tilted about two degrees to the left,” she says. “And if you move the purple one up an inch, it’ll align better with that pipe-looking thing over there.”

We make the adjustments, and all of a sudden the exhibit is a whole entity, not just a jumble of canvases.

“You’re a genius,” I tell Frances.

“Happy to help,” she says, and wanders away to look at a fishtank filled with scrap metal. 

Brian puts a hand on my shoulder. “You should be proud.”

I smile and put my own hand over his. “I am.”

***

Everything’s basically in place by the time the preview starts, except for a few of the signs and, I’m told, some spoons suspended on fishing wire over the scrap-metal fishtank (don’t ask). Frances returns to where I’m glaring at my paintings, thinking that I should have added one more yellow stripe to the big one after all.

“Nervous?”

“Obviously.”

“You’ll do great,” she says. “And if anyone doesn’t love your work, tell me and I’ll come over to stare threateningly at them until they leave.”

I laugh and squeeze her hand. “Thanks.”

A woman in a huge hat with, I swear to God, an entire taxidermy peacock on top walks over. I recognize the type immediately from the Chelsea gallery where my day job is: pretentious but tasteless, and progressive only as long as it’s trendy.

“It’s so nice to see young artists in love,” she says, looking at us.

Frances and I look at each other, exercising our practiced talent at synchronized internal eyerolls. I decide to have some fun with our admirer.

“That’s very kind, but I’m afraid we’re actually going through a messy divorce,” I say.

Frances catches on immediately - one of the many things I love about her - and adds, “We had some good years, but then the honeymoon period ended and I ran away with a stripper from Queens. Honestly, our marriage was mostly a beard-with-tax-benefits kind of thing.”

I drop her hand and put on my best outraged face. “It was real for me,” I say, in the campiest voice I can manage. Behind the peacock lady, I see Brian trying (and mostly failing) not to crack up.

When the peacock lady has moved on, a little emotionally traumatized but otherwise not much worse for wear, Brian comes over.

“As entertaining as that was, you probably don’t want to scare off more potential buyers than you absolutely have to,” he says.

“Please,” Frances says. “Those shoes were from Payless. She’s not here to buy.”

Brian looks at her. “Has anyone ever told you that you have the soul of a sixty-year-old queen?”

“Weirdly enough, yes,” she says. "My friend in Brooklyn who reads auras.”

***

Daph and I play Is That a Penis or Just a Big Tube with the multitude of phallic-adjacent sculptures scattered around while we wait for more visitors to arrive. Right now, we’re stopped at a tall glass thing that tapers to a razor tip before mushrooming out to a big circle with strings of neon color exploding through it.

“Penis,” she says.

I’m not so sure. “It’s so thin and pointy. If it is a dick, it’s not a very flattering portrait.”

Brian walks over with a stack of signs. “Playing Penis or Tube?”

Daphne and I stare at him.

“Mikey and I invented that at a Center benefit, like, fifteen years ago,” he says, and grins at me. “I told you about it one night, but you were flying on E, so I guess you don’t remember. Amazing what the subconscious mind can do, huh? Also, as with most things, the answer is always cock, no matter what the artist says.” He leers at me and I flip him off.

He looks down at the placard he’s holding. “But given that the name of this … lovely … piece of fine art is “Phallus in Vaporwave”, I’m going to say Daphne’s definitely got it right this time.”

I look at the glass thing again and shudder before turning to see if anyone’s come through the door since I last checked.

“They’ll show up,” Brian says.

“I know,” I say, and I do, but that’s kind of what I’m worried about. “This is- a big step, showing to real collectors who come here to buy, schmoozing to the general public. I don’t even _like_ the general public, and you know how vicious New Yorkers are.”

“Sunshine, you made _me_ fall in love with you, remember? New York should be a snap,” he says.

I wrap an arm around him and kiss his cheek, then notice a gaggle of expensively-outfitted people coming into the gallery.

“Time to conquer the art world,” Brian says.

“I've gotta start somewhere, right?” I say, and put on my Sunshiniest smile as I walk over to the visitors.

**Author's Note:**

> As a person with OCD myself, I can confirm that many of us are good at organizing shit (although not in the way you probably think) and identifying slight imperfections in stuff like the orientations of hanging paintings. We have a running joke in my family that they always make me set up the veggie tray at parties because I automatically sort all the carrots and peppers into pretty rectangles.


End file.
